necessary. Maybe the watch had impressed him. Goddard went out, a little ashamed and regretting the whole thing; he didn’t care in the slightest where he was quartered, and working on deck would have been fun. He was surprised, too, that the sanctimonious fraud could have made him lose his cool; he’d thought he was impervious to the Steens of the world.

Lind was just coming in. He was bareheaded, in khakis and moccasins, and apparently never wore shoulder boards. He grinned at Goddard. ‘Stick around a minute. I’ve got some things in my room you may be able to use.’

‘Sure,’ Goddard said. ‘Thanks.’ He went out and leaned on the rail on the starboard wing of the bridge. It would be a different ship, he thought, if Lind were master of it.

4

‘Appendectomy?’ Lind asked. ‘Spinal tap? Bothered with impacted teeth? Lover’s catarrh? I’m always looking for a live one.’

Goddard grinned and indicated the skull jammed behind some books on the desk. ‘Not if that’s a former patient.’

‘Bought it from a Moro down in the Celebes,’ Lind said. ‘You can still see where somebody got him with a bolo; probably the guy who sold it to me. Drink? Short one before lunch?’

‘Sure, if it’s that or surgery,’ Goddard said.

Lind yanked open a drawer and brought out a bottle of Canadian Club and two glasses. ‘Did you know that the references to wine in the New Testament really meant Welch’s grape juice? It was a faulty translation from the Greek.’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that,’ Goddard said. He looked around the cabin again. While at first glance it would appear it could only have been assembled by a pack rat, a madman, or the vortex of a tornado, a more subjective appraisal revealed the blazing and restless mind that complemented the vast male exuberance of its tenant. More outpatient clinic or dispensary than living quarters, it also bore some resemblance to a library after an earthquake, with traces here and there of a museum. Anchored to the deck was a sterilizer containing scalpels, tooth forceps, hemostats, and hypodermic syringes. Boxes and specially built shelves held the contents of a small pharmacy—bottles, vials, tubes, splints, packaged sutures, and rolls of gauze and tape. There were several ebony carvings and a bolo, and books were everywhere, in English, German, and French, two full shelves plus more piled on the settee and on the deck. Some were medical textbooks, in addition to the standard first-aid manuals. Cugle and Bowditch were sandwiched between Faulkner and Gide. Goddard ran his eye on down the rows—Goethe, African Genesis, Vance Packard, Also Sprach Zarathuslra, L’Être at le Néant. There was a combination, Nietzsche and Sartre.

Lind handed him the drink, and they clicked glasses. ‘Down the hatch.’

‘Skol,’ Goddard said. ‘You were a medical student?’

‘Two years. And you used to be a merchant seaman?’

‘A few trips as ordinary when I was a kid. How’d you know?’

‘You asked me if I was the mate, remember? Not chief mate or first mate.’ Lind opened a closet. ‘I’ve got some slacks here that might fit you. How big are you?’

‘Six feet one,’ Goddard said. ‘One-ninety.’

‘Should be just about right then.’ Lind handed him two pairs of light flannel slacks. ‘Some Chileno dry-cleaner shrunk ‘em. And here’s another sport shirt, a drip-dry.’ He added socks, belt, a pair of slippers, handkerchiefs, and a spare safety razor.

‘Thanks a million,’ Goddard said.

‘I’ve got a weak stomach. Can’t eat with people who never change their clothes.’ Lind tossed off the rest of his drink, and shook his head. ‘I don’t see why in hell you couldn’t have had scurvy, at least. Pick up a guy drifting around in a million square miles of ocean on some woman’s diaphragm, and he’s healthy as a horse.’

* * *

Cabin B, in the starboard passageway of the promenade deck, contained two bunks on opposite sides of the room, a desk, closet, and small rug, and had its own shower. Lunch was served at twelve thirty, Barset said, and dinner at six. There was no bar, but he could buy anything he wanted from the bonded stores. Goddard looked over the list and ordered six bottles of Beefeaters gin, a bottle of vermouth, and three cartons of Camels.

‘And would you ask the cabin steward to bring me a pitcher and some ice?’ he added.

He showered, put on a pair of Lind’s slacks and a sport shirt and the slippers, and stowed the rest of his meager possessions. Closet space was going to be no problem.